


Those Three Minutes and Seventeen Seconds Can Make All the Difference in the World

by Sheridan_Hope



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Happy Ending, John is pissed, Little bit of angst, M/M, Mary is a bitch, Sherlock Oversteps Societal Boundaries (Again), but only for a little bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-12-22 05:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11960544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheridan_Hope/pseuds/Sheridan_Hope
Summary: Set in The Empty Hearse. What if Sherlock never had the idea to dress up as a waiter and surprise John? He wasted three minutes and seventeen seconds finding the necessary disguise pieces, when it would've taken him all of twenty seconds to sit down. And yes, I counted.





	1. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reflects on his life.

The mid-winter air was brisk and chill outside of the Landmark. Patrons bustled in and out of the prestigious establishment, those from the outside flocking to the warmth the building promised, and the rest simply returning home after a fulfilling meal. Most were clothed in finery, the women bedecked in jewels and silk, with the men in similar attire, minus the extravagant accessories encircling the necks, fingers, wrists, arms, and ankles of most women. None of them mattered, however. Tonight, the man known as Sherlock Holmes had one goal, and one goal only.

To prove to John Watson that he was, indeed, alive.

After that fateful jump off of the hospital roof two years prior, Sherlock had left the world convinced of his demise, which, of course, was all a part of the plan. So was the two years of isolation, with no contact except for the occasional correspondence with his insufferable git of a brother, Mycroft.

He had anticipated the extreme feelings of loneliness that accompanied being cut off from society for so long a period, as well as the debilitating depression that might ensue. What he had not foreseen, however, were the emotions and thoughts concerning one man.

Dr. John Hamish Watson.

As the first year of his scheme was enacted, he had gone into deep cover, carefully snipping away at the remaining strands of Moriarty’s web with surgical precision. Every strike was calculated, designed to pierce right into the heart of the enterprise that spread to a global level. Bit by bit, the criminal underworld began to collapse, as agents of the spider became entangled in their own web, their past crimes catching up to them. Most often, they were all sentenced to jail on an anonymous tip with all of the leads to follow. In that first year, much was done.

The feelings started on the second day of the second year, a rather poetic date, but Sherlock was not a lover of the lyrical arts. The date meant nothing to him at the time; only when he looked over a calendar after his return did he scoff humorlessly at the irony.

It was snowing in Paris. The flakes fell to the ground in sheets. No work would be done that day, and so Sherlock found himself cooped up in a sensible, but drab and small hotel room with nothing but his mind to occupy him. Every city jump required the disposal of previous possessions, and today was the first day of his stay in the City of Light.

He awoke at his characteristically late hour and, with one accusatory glare to the blizzard outside, huddled under the covers again. The hotel had been a dirt-cheap one, and had not come equipped with heating. After all, Sherlock had only meant to stay a night. Paris, for all of the grandeur it boasted, was host to only one Moriarty associate, although a fairly dangerous one. A woman by the name of Fleur Madeaux. She ran a local milliner’s shop, but that was merely a facade. Underneath (quite literally) the glamour was a secret bunker, stocked with food, water, weapons, and any other basic amenities the agents of the spider might need. It _had_ been Sherlock’s plan to place false evidence of an obvious crime near the hypothetical secret door to the bunker in the shop, in the hopes that the police, when investigating, might discover said secret door and arrest her on illegal weapons purchases.

However, as previously stated, it was snowing. Heavily. The roads were impossible to navigate, and Miss Madeaux’s shop was on the other side of town. Sherlock would surely die of hypothermia before he got halfway there.

So that's how he found himself alone with his thoughts in a dingy hotel room in Paris.

Although the passage of time had become nebulous, Sherlock had gotten an update through one of Mycroft’s contacts alerting him of the anniversary of his death. He had chuckled when he read it, then proceeded to set the paper on fire. Why, he wasn’t entirely sure.

That paper was what had probably sparked (almost literally) the thoughts of John. Sherlock began to recall the events leading up to his fatal plummet of three stories. The frantic search for a criminal genius, all the while watching his reputation crumble down around him keeping his plan from John, his closest friend.

_Friend._  The word felt thick in his mouth, in his thoughts. It was such a foreign concept to the consulting detective. He, of all people, had made a friend with the bravest and kindest of men. A man who was smart. Tolerant of all of Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies and his eccentricity in general. And strong. Oh so strong. To have endured such pain and then keep fighting by Sherlock’s side, all the while yearning for more. Sherlock was incredibly lucky to have made a life with this man.

And then he had torn it all away. The promises of a long and happy path, existences intertwined, were blotted out like a pot of spilled ink made its way over the parchment of life where their future was supposed to be. And then, the writer, having forgotten what he wrote in that section, replaced it with tragedy and loss, instead of the lightness that should have been. It really wasn’t fair, but Sherlock did what he knew he had to. He had to do this for the sake of all people, not just the preservation of what he so desperately wanted, but would never be, now. Or then, even. But what if?

From that first day, Sherlock knew there was something special about Dr. Watson, although he could never lay a finger on the what. After that first case, Sherlock knew he’d found someone he could rely on. Work would never be the same.

As the times went on, Sherlock was forced to at least consider the possibility that he might have feelings for John, but he never acted upon them, for obvious reasons. But after a while, he decided that he most definitely did _not_ have feelings for the medical man. It was just a close friendship.

But he began to reconsider that day, in Paris.

He wasn’t sure if it was the romantic nature of the city, or the anniversary of his death, or something else entirely, but his views on his friend took a dramatic turn. Mentally, he reviewed every interaction they’d evey had together, and he decided that he most certainly had feelings for John.

This wasn’t exactly a revelation or an epiphany of any sorts, but it still came as a dulled shock to Sherlock’s rational consciousness. As it turned out, he sat in his bed all day just contemplating these newfound emotions. In that moment, he made an internal vow that, when he saw John again, he would tell him everything.

And so that’s what found a Mr. Sherlock Holmes standing outside the Landmark on a bitterly chill mid-winter’s night.


	2. Not Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now's the time for the reveal.

John, of course, had no idea.

Inside, he sat, fidgeting with a red velvet box as he waited for the love of his life to join him.

 

Sherlock sighed. Now was the time. With all of the confidence of a dead man walking, he slipped inside amongst the throng.

The atmosphere of the Landmark was alive with the sounds of civilized chatter, the clinking of glasses and cutlery, the whirring of the heater as it worked overtime to keep the guests cozy while they ate.

There. John. Dressed up, of course, and content in all of his mustachioed glory. Sherlock screwed up his face in abject horror. Even if he never saw John again, Sherlock would _have_  to convince him to shave that off. For _everyone’s_ sake.

 

Ten minutes. Mary was ten minutes late. John took a cursory look around, just to make sure she wasn’t there already and simply had not spotted his table. He didn’t take notice of the (distinctly tall, distinctly male) figure by the door.

 

Obstacle number one. The doorman. The Landmark was a reservation-only restaurant, and Sherlock, having no reservation, needed to quickly concoct a plan to get in. Several half-formed ideas involving diversions, sweet-talking, and brute-forcing flashed through his mind, but none were very efficient. After taking a furtive glance at said doorman, Sherlock noticed two things.

The doorman was an expectant father. And his mobile had just chimed.

Sherlock saw an opportunity for the least amount of collateral damage, and he took it. He strode up to the doorman, confidence restored, and stated, “Your wife just texted you.” Not actually true, but enough to distract him. “Possibly her contractions have started.” Sherlock could see fear flash through his gaze as he bolted to call his wife. Sherlock smirked (it had been easy) and strolled on in.

 

John heard some sort of commotion by the door, but when he looked, nothing seemed amiss. He shrugged. Probably nothing.

 

As Sherlock began to weave through the tables, a small waitress bumped into him. After issuing a quick apology, he pressed on. A silly notion (something having to do with disguising himself as a waiter and surprising John, he couldn’t really remember) flitted through his head, but he ignored it. This was more important than any childish ploy. Mentally, Sherlock reviewed the speech he’d prepared. He’d walk in, calm John down, recite the speech and then leave him for good. There was no way John would want him back after all those years. It was for the best if he simply refused contact from then on.

There. John was looking away. Sherlock, as if a ghost, slid into the seat across from the man he loved.

 

Sighing, John took one more sweep of the room to look for his potential fiancée. She still wasn’t visible. He sighed again, and refocused his eyes on the table before him. And very nearly screamed.

 

This was bad. This was very, very bad. John was overreacting and Sherlock had to calm him down before the elite of London noticed something was amiss. He really hadn’t expected this. At most, John maybe would’ve gasped or sported a look of confusion before Sherlock explained, but gasping loudly and almost yelling before frantically backing away was not an option. And yet, that was exactly what he was doing.

 

This couldn’t be real. It was all a dream. It had to be. But there he sat, across the table, eyes wide with apprehension. John knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he should stop hyperventilating and scrambling away from the table (after all, he would probably run into something), but every instinct was warring with itself. Fight or Flight. Run, or Punch Sherlock in His Perfect Cheekbones. It really was a moral conundrum, and one with no obvious solution, which was why John settled for heaving and gasping, clasping his hands over his mouth to stifle a shout. He failed spectacularly, and a piercing shriek echoed through the dining hall.

Sherlock, noting the attention they were getting, made a gesture to indicate that everything was fine. When the stares were averted, which took only a fraction of a second, Sherlock made his move. He bolted out of his seat and knelt in front of John, taking a hand in his own and clenching it tightly. John blushed slightly at the contact, but he had bigger problems to worry about. Namely, Sherlock. Sherlock, who was currently inches from John, one hand entangled with his own, the other on his neck, feeling his pulse. His inexplicable gaze was locked with John’s, worried eyes scanning, judging his reaction.

“John.” The familiar baritone issued from his lips, unchanged over the years. John closed his eyes, convinced it wasn’t real. That it was all a horrific nightmare, and he would wake up in Mary’s arms. This was not the Sherlock of two years ago. This _couldn’t_ be real. But it was.

“John, look at me.” Sherlock’s hand was on John’s face now, and his voice was shaky.

John, emboldened, opened his eyes.

 

When Sherlock saw John begin to panic, his first instinct was to comfort him, not only because of wanting John to hear what he had to say, but because he genuinely wanted to.

He rushed. The hand around John’s felt nice, and Sherlock was sure he reddened, but he didn’t necessarily care at that present time. All that mattered was John.  However, it looked as though John had a similar reaction. His face was a pale shade of scarlet and he seemed happy, if a bit befuddled. Sherlock smiled in return. _Maybe he still had a chance._

But John was still in distress, so Sherlock’s desires could wait. With his gaze still obscured by his eyelids, John would not accept what was right in front of him. There. Sherlock placerd his other hand on John’s neck feeling his pulse, and then slowly moved it up to his cheek to soothe him.

“John.” Drat. His eyes were still closed.

“John, look at me.” Yes. His deep blue gaze was focused on Sherlock’s (probably also flaming red) face, and Sherlock smiled bitterly.

 

He was here. He was really here.

Sherlock. The man he… loved? The jury was still out on that one. But he was here, in front of John’s face.

As his heart rate slowed, Sherlock guided him back to the table, where he smoothed out the front of his suit and settled into the chair. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. He was so happy to see him, and yet, above all else, wished to punch his lights out. But first…

“Explain.”

 

Sherlock breathed. Now was the time.

“Now, John, I’m going to have to leave after this, but you _must_ listen to me.”

John looked like he was going to offer some sort of protest, but Sherlock silenced him with a finger.

“Short version. Not dead.”

Curt nod from John. Sigh from Sherlock.

“Longer, but still brief version.” He sighed. Again.

“John, these are prepared words, and I've rehearsed many times before this, but I want you to know that all of this--” he made an encompassing gesture with his hands, “--comes from my heart and I don’t mean it any less. And, who knows. I may just abandon the speech and improvise, but either way…” He chuckled, mirthless.

Breathe in. Out.

“John… I…”

“Yes?” He looked… almost… _hopeful_.

“John, I love you.”


	3. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are confessed! Obviously. But also explained, mostly.

Sherlock loved him. Sherlock _loved_ him. John could’ve, quite literally, kissed him with all the force of his joy behind it, but a soul-crushing thought wormed its way into his mind. He was going to propose to a woman in less than five minutes. Probably. She still hadn't shown up, and with London traffic, it was kind of a crapshoot.

John had always known he had loved Sherlock, but several things in his past stopped him from admitting it. That, and Sherlock professed himself as uninterested on the _first night_ of their acquaintanceship. Or had he? His words hadn’t been that specific… And after the jump, John obviously knew his chances were finished, and so he pursued the next best option. However, Sherlock was _alive._ So John took what he could, and a certain levity in his chest came with it. His lips quirked in the barest hint of a smile. So did Sherlock’s, while he began winding up for his explanation speech.

Oh. Oh shit. John’s eye was caught by a slim figure dressed in purple making its way over the balcony.

 _Oh fuck_ , he thought. Mary was coming.

 

“Sherlock--”

There wasn’t time. John would ask too many questions and then ultimately shut him down.

“John, listen.”

“But--”

“John, I--I’ve loved you…” He looked at the ceiling while he tried to remember the past events of their lives. “I think since the moment I met you, although I didn’t recognize it _as_ love at the time.”

Another curt nod. Another sigh.

“But, as we grew closer, I began to doubt myself. I was almost convinced I should ask you, _tell_ you, but you seemed so averse to the idea that I was dissuaded. Let alone love, I was almost dissuaded of our friendship in general, and that’s when I looked into the Moriarty case. I figured that you wouldn't--” Here, his breath hitched and a few tears threatened to spill over. “That you wouldn’t take it too badly if I disappeared. At least, if it were for the greater good.”

John looked aghast, but gave the distinct impression he understood, even if he didn't like _what_  he was understanding. But then, his eyes widened in fear.

 _Fear of_ what? Sherlock wondered.

“And… and when I jumped, I knew I would break you. But I assumed that you were finished with me, given your--” he waved his arms around noncommittally, “-- _outburst,_ I guess. At Barts, I mean. But… around the second year of my 'death,' I had second thoughts. I thought of you, and I made a vow that, when I saw you again, I would tell you how I really felt. So… that’s what this is, I suppose. I love you, John. And, I should go, I think. You won’t want to see me anymore, so--” He made a move to stand, but John reached across the table and gripped Sherlock’s forearm, effectively trapping him at the table. Sherlock’s eyes were wide as he looked at his arm and John’s hand, and then John’s face. John grimaced. And then backhanded him. Sherlock recoiled, placing a gentle palm to his cheek, which was stinging in time with his elevated heartbeat.

“That’s for leaving me, you berk.” He chuckled affectionately, but then his expression turned serious.

“But… Sherlock… I… I don’t know what to say to that…” John trailed off, words seemingly abandoning him when he needed them most.

“I understand,” Sherlock said dejectedly, staring at the decidedly empty plate before him.

“No. You don’t,” John snapped, pulling Sherlock close. His gaze was steely.

“John, I do. I get it. I should… I should go.” He stood, pulling John with him, who stood too.

 

Mary was getting closer. It was only a matter of time before she noticed their uninvited guest. But Sherlock was leaving, and John had so much he needed to say.

“Sherlock, wait…”

But he was already walking away, and John’s hold on his arm wasn’t doing much to slow him down. He moved his hand to the taller man’s shoulder and spun him around. The sight that greeted him was a surprising one.

Sherlock was a wreck. His eyes were red and puffy, and a few tears were traversing their way down his face. John felt like he’d been slapped.

“Sherlock, I--hmph!”  Whatever John had been to planning to say was cut off, rather roughly, when Sherlock grasped John’s collar and kissed him.

 

 _Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod_. Sherlock’s thought were all a jumble. His brain was exploding with fireworks. Kissing John was a million times better than he’d ever imagined, even taking the mustache into account. He ran his hands through John’s closely cropped hair, and pressed even closer, twining his fingers behind John’s head. John, more than a little surprised at Sherlock’s behavior, wasted no time in reciprocating, tangling Sherlock’s chocolate curls with his fingers. Sherlock moaned at the contact, and, in turn, John produced a similarly stimulating noise of his own. Sherlock could scarcely believe his luck. This was better than any outcome he could’ve ever dreamed of. John was just beginning to show signs of arousal when a firm female voice cut through the bliss-fog of their minds.

“What the _fuck!?”_

 

 _Holy mother of God! Holy fucking shit!_ John had been totally unprepared for Sherlock’s full on snog, yet it was not unwelcome. In fact, it was just the opposite. When their lips collided for the first time, it was all John could do to keep his knees from collapsing underneath him. That perfect cupid’s bow mouth was certainly living up to _all_ of John’s expectations. And _then_ some.

All of his problems vanished in an instant. Thoughts of Mary were abandoned. All that mattered was Sherlock.

When Sherlock began to play with John’s hair, he melted, waves of pleasure rolling through him. Feeling it was only fair to return the gesture, John reached up to massage the taller man’s mop of fluffy ringlets. Sherlock moaned, a guttural sound that reverberated through John’s core. He replied in an amplified echo, and everything felt like it collapsed on that moment.

 _This is how it’s meant to be_ , John thought though the euphoria clouding his mind. _Just the two of us._

But then the universe just _had_ to screw them over.

“What the _fuck!?”_

Mary had arrived.


	4. Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary is a bitch! And her feelings toward the whole situation are explained. Sort of. Also, Sherlock is oblivious!

John pushed away suddenly, as if shocked.

“What--Who is this? What are you doing, John?” his girlfriend asked, seemingly torn between confusion and anger.

“Shit,” John muttered. “Mary, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is my girlfriend--” he grimaced, “--Mary Morstan.”

Mary put a hand to her mouth and staggered back, placing her free palm flat on the table to keep her balance.

“Oh my god,” she gasped. “But--But you’re dead!”

Sherlock remained stoic, even when staring into the livid face of one Mary Morstan. “No, I’m quite certain I’m not. I checked.”

John groaned. Typical.

“What… What are you doing with my boyfriend?” Mary said slowly, edging toward them as if they were rabid animals.

“I… I really should go. Enjoy your evening. This was all my fault. I’m sorry, John, I should leave. See you around.” Sherlock turned to leave, pulling his woolen Belstaff close around his shoulders.

“Sherlock, don’t go!” John called out against his better judgement.

“Why.” His voice was flat, lacking emotion. Mary narrowed her eyes at her boyfriend (maybe not for much longer, though).

“Because… I… I haven’t been entirely honest with you. _Or_ Mary.” John gave her a look out of the corner of his eye.

“I suppose you’ll want to sit down, then,” Sherlock mumbled awkwardly, swiping a chair from an adjacent table. Mary graciously accepted it, simultaneously managing to look humbled by Sherlock’s relative kindness and like she wanted to rip his head from his shoulders and throw the remains of his body into an active volcano. Seeing that Sherlock’s spinal cord was still intact when he sat down inches from John, Mary had corralled her pissed-off-ness enough to avoid killing him for at least a few more minutes.

As the trio settled down, a more than a little confused waiter stopped by their table, trembling hands bearing water glasses and menus. Although a few pleading looks were pointed in the direction of the wine list, it was decided that alcohol would only impair their judgement so just the three waters were placed in front of them. No one made a move to drink.

“So,” Mary said, breaking the interminable silence. “How did this happen? What just happened? _Why_ did it happen? And…” She pointed an accusatory finger at Sherlock. “And _you_ were _dead_.”

“No. Merely faking,” Sherlock said airily, finally taking a dainty sip of his water. To most he would’ve appeared extraordinarily calm, but John could see the fear lurking behind his corneas. He’d seen it once before, in Grimpen Village’s local pub. It was a terrifying thing when not kept in check. John sidled closer to the consulting detective and laid a careful finger on his pulse point. It was so high, John was actually concerned.

Mary looked at them suspiciously.

 _Sherlock’s hands were shaking_. Almost imperceptibly, but John could hear the faint clinking of ice against the frosted glass. As much as the part of him that valued his relationship with Mary told him to have some respect for her feelings, John entwined his unusually steady fingers with Sherlock’s jittery ones. He seemed surprised at the small touch, but smiled warmly all the same, before turning to face the stony-faced woman again.

“I suppose you’re wondering what you just witnessed,” Sherlock said slowly.

Mary’s forced smile became manic. “Oh, I’m pretty sure I know what I just _witnessed!”_ she nearly shouted. “I just saw _my boyfriend_ of seven months -- who, I’m pretty sure, was going to propose to me--” She held up the box containing the ring, and Sherlock cast his eyes downward, “-- _snogging_ a man, a _man_ , I’d never even seen before!” Her voice had turned shrill, and her Cheshire grin was intensifying. John shrank into his seat while Sherlock laid a protective arm over his shoulders. Mary looked like she was about to explode as she turned her face to Sherlock, judgemental gaze boring into his skull.

“You know, when I first started dating John, all he would talk about was _you._ How smart you were. How brave you were. How selfless, kind, and generous you were. How you were the most wonderful friend. And I _let him do it_. I figured, ‘Why not? He’s just lost his best friend who’d turned out to be a fake and pulled the wool over his eyes.’ Still _was_ , really. There was no way someone could be that smart. I mean, obviously, last week, they proved you right, but still. At the time, I thought you were a fraud. A _fake_.” She punctuated this statement by viciously prodding the table with her index finger.

“But _then_ , and this is the kicker,” Mary chuckled darkly, “he _didn’t stop_. Two months. Three. Always comparing me to the great. _Sherlock. Holmes._ I mean, he was nice enough, which is why I stuck around, but _you_ …” She leaned in close to the very scared consulting detective’s face. “Your ghost was a thorn in my side that I wanted rid of at the first opportunity.”

John pressed even closer into the warmth of Sherlock’s body, who was taking the brunt of the abuse. He wanted to do _something_ to stop the barrage of truths, sharpened into knives and twisted by Mary’s point of view from piercing deep into the heart of his long lost friend, but his vocal chords couldn’t seem to offer anything useful. And Mary was still ranting, her tirade nowhere near finished.

“I understood. Or _tried_ to, anyway. I had heard of John from the press. We _all_ had.” She swept an arm out to address the room. “When he first approached me, I recognized him instantly. Told him I was sorry for his loss, and all that jazz. He didn’t seem to care -- in fact, he seemed a little emotionally dead and broken--" John frowned, "--but I liked him. He wasn’t like other men. Didn’t try smooth pick-up lines or try to be the smarmy charlatan who hopes you’ll fall in love with him. He was upfront and to the point. Told me he thought I was pretty and asked me to coffee.

“Even after he blatantly expressed interest in me, after we went on our first date -- second and third, up to the tenth or so, really -- I had second thoughts. I thought his heart wasn’t in it. I mean, everyone and their dog in London -- and, probably the whole world, for that matter -- assumed you two were an ‘ _item._ ’”

The air quotes were like a blow to the face for the two men, and they looked guiltily at each other.

“And, maybe, it turns out I was right. You, John Watson, can go to _Hell_ for this.” Mary was seething, and it didn’t take a genius to realize that quitting the premises at the earliest possible convenience at great speeds was probably the best course of action.

John spontaneously found his shoes remarkably fascinating. “I’m sorry, Mary, I really am…” He looked over at his best friend, who was still staring blankly into the middle distance. “But I suppose we’d best be going.”

“Fine,” Mary sneered as John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s midsection. He began to gather up his things with his free arm when Mary suddenly seemed to reset. Tears welled in her eyes and a look of pure regret crossed her features, giving John pause. Sherlock gripped his arm.

“Wait.” His voice had a hard, commanding edge to it. John hesitated. Sherlock had picked up on something he hadn’t. Something was going to happen, and his blood yearned to take this opportunity to set things right.

Mary was still crying, and, between hiccuping sobs, managed to choke out, “John. I am so, so, so, sorry about all that. I just--The shock of seeing you with Sherlock kind of overrode my brain, I guess, and--I didn’t mean all of those horrible things I said. Okay, maybe a little bit, but I still love you.” Her face was streaked with blackened tears from her eyeliner, and her bloodshot eyes told a story no words could possibly hope to emulate. It broke John’s heart to see her that way.

“I--I tried to keep my emotions from getting away from me, but as you can--well, you can see how that turned out.” She let out another choked gasp, and chuckled at the ridiculousness of the situation. One rub of a manicured hand under her eyes, and she was good to go.

“I really am sorry, you know. I--I get that you love him. You should stay with him. Go back to Baker Street. He makes you happy. Happier than you would’ve ever been with me.”

“Now hang on, you don’t know that!” John remonstrated, still attempting to salvage what little of their relationship was left.

“Yeah, I really do,” Mary shot back, complete confidence in her statement radiating off of her. “ _You_ should too. You _knew_ you weren’t ready. I was just a means of escape from your true emotions that you were too scared to face.”

Sherlock’s formerly blank stare swiveled toward John. His gaze was owl-like in disbelief.

“John, is… is this true?”

“What do you think? You’re a detective. You’re meant to be _good_ at figuring things out, aren’t you?” John smirked. But several things were left hanging in the silence over the dinner table, issues John felt he should tackle. As it was, he was the only one who hadn’t poured out his heart that evening. However, Sherlock beat him to the punch.

“I feel I owe you -- _both_ of you-- an apology of sorts. I didn’t mean--I didn’t know that John had finally settled down--with someone. I thought that he would still be struggling with girlfriends like he always was.”

John smacked him lightly on the arm, indignation evident on his face.

“You arsehat!”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess,” John was forced to concede. “But it was at least half your fault!”

“What!? How was that in any way my fault?”

“You always needed me!”

“You didn’t have to come! If anything, this proves that you prioritized me over them!”

“Boys!” Mary interjected, shoving their faces, which had grown closer during the shouting match, apart. “We’re getting off topic. Sherlock, back to you.”

“Thank you, Mary.” He cleared his throat. “John I--I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry for letting you grieve. I’m sorry for leaving you and leaving you by yourself. I’m sorry for not having faith in you. Mary--I’m sorry for ruining your relationship. I had no right to intrude on your… territory, I suppose, and for that, I am _truly_ sorry. You two deserve each other."

John’s jaw dropped. For all of his friend’s deductive powers, John was occasionally astonished (and not in the good way) at how completely and totally he could miss the central point of a conversation.

“No, Sherlock--You know, for a genius, you can be incredibly thick sometimes.”

“But… I thought you were trying to sort things right with Mary.” The bewilderment was obvious; his features were practically a billboard advertising it.

“I am, but not in the way you think.”

“What other way could it _possibly_ be?”

John groaned. “You moron. Just sit and listen, will you? You too, Mary,” John said, looking with purpose at his giggling girlfriend. The giggling only intensified, and John put his face in his hands.

The enticing aromas of five-star food permeated his nostrils as he took a soothing breath. He was ready to begin.


	5. Cheating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is such a short chapter, but I'm lazy. Sorry. John confesses things! In a really straightforward way, as is his wont to do. It's his turn, after all. Sherlock is oblivious! Again! Mary may actually be going insane. I'm not sure.

Sherlock was confused. Very much so. John _didn’t_ want to go back to Mary?

 _I mean, he_ did _kiss me, but I initiated, so maybe he was just being kind? But that’s a really roundabout way to show kindness, so maybe he likes me? Hopefully. But what if he doesn’t?_ He has a girlfriend, for fuck’s sake. _But what if he dates me and I fuck it up? I can’t stand to lose him again. I really_ do _love him, but--_ Sherlock’s internal monologue ground to a halt when a plate of food was placed on the table before him.

“I figured you’d need it,” John said, smiling. _When had he ordered?_

“I ordered while you were up in your Mind Palace,” he added, giving the impression that he had read Sherlock’s thoughts.

“Thank you, John.”

“No problem!” The reply was weirdly light-hearted and accompanied by a gentle elbow to the ribs. A gesture common among friends, if his memory served, but... John seemed altogether far too cheerful. Maybe the stress was finally getting to him?

As Sherlock tucked in, John began his speech.

“First of all, Mary, I really _am_ sorry for putting you through that. The blame rests entirely on myself, as much as Sherlock might like to argue.”

Said man mentally rolled his eyes.

“And Sherlock, I also owe _you_ an apology.”

“What for?”

“For not telling you sooner. This could’ve all been avoided if I had.”

“Telling… me… what?” Sherlock asked slowly, carefully enunciating every syllable.

John looked at him incredulously. “You _seriously_ haven’t figured it out by now!?”

Sherlock was stymied. “Figured… what… out?” he said, repeating his earlier method of stuttering speech and internally kicking himself for it.

John’s gaze flitted over to Mary, who looked liked she was going to explode. Her demented, yet somewhat detached (Sherlock was beginning to question her sanity. Was she actually losing grip on her life?) grin cut across her face in a way to rival the greatest of canyons in the world. Her clenched fists were held in an anticipatory pose up near her otherworldly canyon smile. And, finally, to top it all off, in her display of complete and utter hysteria, she was drumming her feet rapidly against the floor. Sherlock was _still_ very confused. He made this thought known.

“John… what are you saying?”

John mumbled something under his breath. Sherlock didn’t quite catch it, but it sounded an awful lot like, “It’s game time.”

“What’s… happening? Mary?” Sherlock turned to face the ebullient (deranged and maniacal, more like) woman, who looked about ready to rocket out of her seat.

“John?”

“Sherlock… I…” He sighed with more force than was called for. “I--I've never been very good at these sorts of things.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Well there’s _one_ thing we can agree on.”

“You’re not helping,” John warned. “But… I… Sherlock, I really--Agh! I can’t do this!” The question “What do you mean by _this_?” was on the tip of his tongue when he felt a strong hand wrap around the base of his neck as he was pulled into the second kiss of the evening.

Where the last one had been fireworks, this was an atom bomb. John was on Sherlock in a flurry of fire and passion, almost double the amount as before. Both men’s unexpressed emotions crashed together in a tidal wave of joy, sorrow, and anguish. There were no moral compunctions chaining them down, now. Space and time collapsed on that moment. The infinite void stretched before them and Mary and the Landmark and London and the world were nothing. The only thing that mattered that was them. They were no longer separate entities, they were one, the perfect mix of calculating genius and unconditional kindness, intelligence and loyalty, brains and heart.

It was over too soon.


	6. Quick Update (Not part of the story)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick update.

Hello my lovely readers.

I’d like to start this by opening with a big thank you for all of your support and comments and kudos and everything in between. It’s been wonderful to see my work so well accepted by those who understand what people like us do.

So yeah. Thanks.

Now, time to get down to business.

As you all know, I haven’t updated this thing in forever, and that is for a multitude of reasons. First and foremost, I _actually_ _had to get back to school_. (I know, I know. Shocker.) And oh my god, so much work. I have to deal with homework and drama and all sorts of other shit. Mostly applying for high school. (I’m in eigth grade, for those who don’t know). Second is something I don’t like to say, and I’m sure it’s something _you_  don’t want to hear.

I’ve ... sort of lost my inspiration for this fic and my love of Sherlock.

Now, I’m going to say this right now.

I’m making this vow. _I will finish this fic_.

It just won’t be now.

I have to get re-immersed in the world of Sherlock. I have to deal with all of this high school crap. I have to regain my creative drive.

So know this. I will finish this. I just have to get my mojo (Seriously? “Mojo”? What the hell?) back. I don’t want to give you something that is utter garbage just because of some obligation to myself to finish it in a certain amount of time.

Thank you all for your patience.

Sincerely,

Sheridan

P.S. My good friend Amber_Lee will undoubtedly keep nagging me about this fic, so you can thank her when I get another chapter up, whenever that may be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Amber_Lee for being a great friend and inspiring me to keep writing.


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